He sucked in a breath. If he hadn’t just tussled with the little wildcat, he might’ve been duped into thinking her a complete innocent. Maybe it was the bride-white dress. Or the youthful perfection of her skin, like finest alabaster, in direct contrast to the thick mane of glossy raven curls spilling from their pins and framing her delicate face. Her eyes were an unusual color a man wouldn’t soon forget—lavender ringed with deep violet—accentuated by a fringe of thick, inky lashes and topped with sweeping, elegant brows. Her dainty, bow-shaped mouth added to the illusion of innocence.
Timmons somberly bent to unknot the silk ties at her legs. Her lashes swept down and hot color surged in her cheeks. Quinn studiously avoided looking at the layers of snowy-white petticoats. In the heat of the struggle, his focus had been on restraining his assailant, not whether or not his actions were that of a gentleman.
“You might want to interrogate her before you release her. This one’s unpredictable.” In addition to the knot on his head, his toes would likely sport a nasty bruise, thanks to her.
“No need. This here isn’t a petty thief.” Shane paused, amusement twinkling in his blue eyes. “Mr. Darling, meet your shop assistant.”
Words failed him. Rational thought failed him.
Those magnificent violet eyes speared him as the sheriff helped her stand so that he could free her wrists.
“You are Nicole O’Malley?”
“In the flesh.” The perfect lips thinned with displeasure, then winced as she gingerly rubbed the skin where the ties had chafed.
Quinn winced along with her. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Way to make a great first impression, Darling. Then he recalled her culpability in the situation.
“Why did you attack me?” he demanded.
“I thought you were an intruder. Why did you sneak in here after hours?”
“I didn’t sneak. This is my store. Besides, the door was unlocked.”
“I think I’ll leave you two to get better acquainted.” The sheriff’s smile was rueful as he passed Quinn. “Welcome to Gatlinburg.”
Placing the ties atop a wooden counter worn smooth from years of transactions, she attempted to divest the material of the wrinkles with the press of her hands. He attempted to ignore the contrast of jet curls against milky skin.
“You’re three days late,” she said.
“An unavoidable delay.” Irritation sharpened his words. None of his previous employees had dared question him. But after this regrettable first meeting, he supposed he owed her an explanation. “My wagon suffered a broken axle. I assume Emmett and his wife have already left?”
“You assume correctly.”
“That is unfortunate. For both our sakes.”
She finally gifted him with her attention. “How so?”
“Because that leaves you to give me the grand tour.”
Her hands stilled atop the lengths of silk. “I have no say in the matter, do I?”
“You are in my employ.” He did nothing to mask the challenge in his tone. Had Nicole O’Malley spoken to Emmett Moore this way? Or was it just him and the fact he’d tied her up invoking this attitude?
Her stiff spine stiffened a fraction more. Her glare could’ve frozen the rain-swollen river out back. “You manhandled me.”
Now would be a good time to point out he’d merely been reacting to the threat he’d perceived in her. His mother had reared him to be a gentleman, however, and so he refrained. “I apologize.”
She considered him for a long moment, dipping her head as if she were a duchess and he a lowly estate servant. “I suppose I owe you an apology, as well.”
Quinn bit the inside of his cheek to keep from retorting. He wasn’t at his best right this minute...travel weary, hungry and hurting. Tomorrow would mark a new beginning between them. For now, he merely wanted to see his store.
Abandoning the ties, Miss O’Malley gestured to the long counter topped with glass display cases. “As you can see, we keep the more expensive items under lock and key. Silver, crystal, jewelry.” Pivoting neatly, she gestured to the shelving units running the length of the walls on either side of the hallway door. The bottom half consisted of closed cabinets and drawers, while the top half was all open shelves. “And here we have a vast assortment of goods.”
Quinn walked slowly past her, his attention on the haphazard collection of canned foods, boxes of wafers and cookies, tableware and linens. Mantel clocks and kerosene lamps perched on the top ledge. When he reached the end, he opened the nearest drawer and frowned at the mess of paper scraps and writing instruments. “Why isn’t the merchandise more organized?”
“Order and neatness weren’t among Emmett’s strengths.”
Posture proud and regal-like, she folded her hands amongst her lace-scalloped skirts. While she’d spoken without censure and her expression revealed not a hint of disdain, he sensed Miss O’Malley didn’t approve of the former owner’s management.
“It’s been this way for as long as I can remember,” she added. “The arrangement may not make sense, but the customers know where to find everything.”
Quinn approached, stopping closer than necessary simply to gauge her reaction. She didn’t retreat. Her lips tightened in disapproval or dislike, he couldn’t tell which.
“Show me more.”
Again, the royal-like dip of her head. Adjectives scrolled through his mind and, as was his custom upon meeting new people, he began a mental list of attributes. Reserved. Prickly. Beautiful. Too bad that last one didn’t appear to extend beyond the surface.
Moving between the two counters, she led him down three side-by-side aisles crammed with a variety of goods—tools, animal traps, ready-made clothing, toys, books and paper products, barrels packed with pickles, flour, sugar and crackers and more. A woodstove occupied the far back corner, surrounded by several chairs and a spittoon. A checker set perched atop an upturned barrel.
“What is this?”
“This is where our male customers gather.”
Dark tobacco stains marred the floorboards, indicating not everyone had good aim. The upscale Boston establishments his family had frequented would never have allowed such a thing. “How often?”
“Whenever we’re open.”
Quinn blinked, searched her face for a sign she was merely jesting. There was none. “Do you mean they gather here every day?”
“Every single one.”
“Are we talking an hour or two in the afternoons?”
“No, they pretty much hang around from dawn to dusk.”
“Let me get this straight—these men sit here for countless hours, disrupting the flow of foot traffic and taking up valuable space that could be used to house more items? And that was acceptable to the Moores?”
“It’s the way things have always been done. Besides, they’re harmless.”
She refolded a calico shirt on a display table piled with neat stacks of ready-made clothing that likely didn’t bear the Darling name. While his family’s garment factories currently supplied the Northern states, his father had plans to expand in the future. There was no question of the venture failing. Anything Edward Darling put his hand to succeeded.
Clawson’s Mercantile in the Tennessee mountains was far removed from Boston and the Darling empire, however. His father had nothing to do with it. Whether it failed